"But I like work, Endy—and a little won't hurt me. Those boys want you—and I'll make the coffee."
"Do you know, Mignonette, how pale you would be if I were away?"
She shook her head.
"I do," said Mr. Linden,—"and as I am in a mood for roses this morning, I want you to let me bring 'those boys' in here—then they can see me and I can see you."
The roses came, started and brightened, and her eyes looked a soft protest; but it was a minority protest and gave way, and her face after all told him he might do what he liked. He gave her a reassuring smile, and went back to the orchard, presently returning with Reuben and Sam,—the one wearing a face of unqualified pleasure, the other of almost as unqualified shyness. Sam was not quite sure that his ears had reported correctly, but the doubt and the new idea were enough to discompose him thoroughly. He listened eagerly to the answers Reuben's words called forth, but seemed afraid to venture many himself. As for Mr. Linden, he was combining another handful of flowers—covering his amusement with very grave composure.
It was not bad amusement; for the exquisite simplicity in Faith's manner, with the contrast of the coming and going colour and the shy eyelashes, made a picture that any one claiming interest in it would have been a little proud of. And the roses in her belt and the cowslips in her hand and the delicate lines of her face which health had not yet rounded out again, all joined to make the vision a very fair one. She was most shy of Sam, and did not look at Mr. Linden.
"I haven't thanked you for your pigeons, Sam," she said, after a few lively words with Reuben.
"No, Miss Faith, please don't!" was the gallant rejoinder.
"Weren't they worth thanks?" inquired Mr. Linden.
"I thought they were, when I was eating them; and mother said they were the best I had. Don't you like to be thanked, Sam?"